Not Tomorrow
by Dorplet
Summary: "Because the world can and will strike them down one day, but Clem knows that it will not be today. Not tomorrow."


**notes** : the character that Clementine encounters is actually 10K from Z Nation, a zombie apocalypse show that I really like, so do check it out. The reason I'm posting this here is because I don't think many people have played The Walking Dead (game) _and_ watched Z Nation, but I may shift this to the crossover section if there's enough interest. The title comes from the Silent Hill song, "Not Tomorrow".

No prior knowledge of Z Nation is needed for this fic. Enjoy.

* * *

The world is full of shadows.

Lee taught her that, just as he taught her practically everything she knows – headshots, the art of disguise, how to listen. React. They may be flesh-eating monsters out to rip you from limb to limb and feast on your guts, but they can only _walk_ , after all.

 _Really_ , Clem thinks as she swings the pipe that she has lovingly nicknamed _Carley_ into the walker's face, there's nothing to fear from them. People, on the other hand, are _scary_. They approach with dancing eyes and a brilliant smile and blood on their teeth. She's been tricked one too many times and barely escaped by the skin of her teeth; she errs on the side of caution now.

The corpse attacking her collapses to the ground, its brain bludgeoned to pieces, bits of flesh caught in its jaws from its last unfortunate victim and its white, shriveled hands still outstretched for her.

She would have shuddered before. Now, she just feels numb.

Sometimes, she wonders if she ought to feel sad that the days pass by in a blur of _sameness_ – of darkness and dim light all mixed together, of bitter sorrow and tiredness. She's been living on this same damn earth for so long, and nothing has changed. There's a hollow, acrid taste on her tongue that she can't quite pinpoint. She thinks that it might be called _despair_.

But today she isn't quite willing to give herself up to the shadows yet, and so she fights.

* * *

There is a boy with goggles strapped to his head and hair the colour of midnight, looking warily back and forth as he clutches a few cans of food tightly to his chest.

Unfortunately for him, the food is not his.

From the rooftop, Clem is grudgingly impressed at the fact that the boy has managed to break into her stash – she'd have to find a better location – but above all she is furious, rage bubbling up inside her that he has _stolen_ from her. She reaches for a brick and tosses it into the trees nearby before leaping down.

He is too wide-eyed and too easily startled and too easily caught off guard, and he whirls around to find the muzzle of her gun cocked straight at his face.

"If you _move_ , I'll fire," she says, scanning his body for any threat. There's a mean-looking sniper strapped to his back – Clem doesn't know how to fire that, but it would definitely fetch a pretty price on the market. A rifle held loosely in his arms, a couple of smaller guns at his waist, and – and the soles of a pair of shoes stuck on his shoulders? She blinks. There are probably a dozen other weapons hidden about his person, but there will be time to search for that later.

Wisely, he stays still. "Drop the guns," Clem orders, and he does as she says. The carpet of dead leaves muffles the clang of his guns falling to the ground. Clem reaches out to toe them closer to her, but never fails to keep her hand steady and trained on the boy with his arms raised up. Warily, she bends down and scoops the load into her backpack, which immediately sags with the weight of the weapons.

The boy stays silent throughout and when she's done, Clem frowns at him. "You raided my supplies, asshole," she tells him, and she can almost picture Lee scolding her for her curse in her head. Involuntarily, she winces.

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice rough and hoarse, as if he hasn't spoken in a long time. "I was hungry."

" _So am I_. You –"

He cuts her off, "I only took a _little_ ," his voice speeding up and becoming pleading, "I didn't mean to, I'll give it back –"

Clem shakes her head. "It doesn't matter. You should have known better. Any last words?" Her finger moves towards the trigger.

The boy looks her dead in the eyes, and she catches her breath – his eyes are blueish-green, the colour of the ocean, and there are dark smudges smeared beneath them. " _Please_ ," he says softly. "I don't want to die."

There is rawness and cracking and _pain_ and against her will, the gun trembles.

She shifts, caught off balance, and he springs, catching her wrist easily in his. The two grapple, and Clem is surprised at the raw power that the boy has despite looking half-starved – but she hasn't survived for so long without learning a few tricks, and she pivots, pushes, and he falls to the ground. Too late, she realizes that he does that with her gun in his hand.

The split second is all he needs; he kicks, hard, and Clem falls, scattering the dead leaves into the air.

Her backpack has come off in the scuffle, and she scans the ground frantically –spies it – _lunges_ for it – but it has ended up behind the boy, and she falls two steps short and eight steps closer to oblivion. He steps closer and closer, closer and closer, until all Clementine can hear is the pounding of her own blood in her ears. She closes her eyes and waits.

The gunshot is startlingly, deafeningly loud in the silence.

Blood splatters on the _back_ of her head; Clem whips around to see the tableau of the walker frozen in time as it lunges for her, and then the former remnants of a person begin to slowly fall to the ground.

He reaches for her, mouthing something that she's not able to catch. She doesn't flinch as he pulls her up to stand on wobbly, unsteady legs that don't quite hold her weight. " _Why_?" she whispers, unable to fathom this strange boy with shoes on his shoulders and kindness she has not known for a long, long time.

"I don't want you – or anyone – to die."

He smiles, and for an instant, the whole world tilts.

* * *

The boy turns out to be a good sniper. Clem has never been able to do long-distance shots accurately – she's much more at home with a pistol, or a knife, or any available instrument. She admits that being a sniper has its merits, but she has developed her style of stealth and sneaking around that would make any ninja proud.

He follows her on her weekly forage into the city. It's gotten easier now that the cold is beginning to settle in, but only slightly. She's happy to notice that he's a relatively good partner, able to hold his own against hordes of walkers without panicking, always on the alert, and above all, able to fire at distances that no human should be able to reach.

"How did you do that?" Clem can't help gaping after a particularly successful killing spree; she can barely make out the walkers at this distance, let alone their heads.

He shrugs. "My dad taught me. How do you do _that_?" He gestures at the splatter of walker blood and guts on both their raincoats.

"My… my friend taught me," says Clem, a tremor in her voice that she is not quite able to hide. She reaches up to jam her baseball cap more securely on her head.

"It's pretty useful," he acknowledges. "Keeps them away from you."

Clem grins. "Until they look too closely."

The boy nods in agreement, and for a while there's nothing but the moaning of the walkers down in the streets. She wonders if their vocal cords will ever give out; if they'll ever stop moving; if the world will ever be free of them. It's a possibility she hasn't thought about for years, not since she was eight and imagined that the whole thing would be over in a _week_ , at most.

But that little girl, the one who believed in fairies and goodness and wanted nothing more than to grow up, has been buried by one who has struggled through living hell and has come out burnt, bruised, broken – but _alive_ , and so Clem clenches her jaw and tightens her grip on her weapon when they take to the streets.

The first traces of white powdery snow pepper the pair as they begin to walk amongst the dead.

* * *

One night, he disappears from the safe house that they're staying in. Clem follows the trail of soil and dirt that trickles from his boots into the basement that they had earlier cleared. She finds him curled up in a ball, arms wrapped tightly around his legs. She doesn't say anything. She just sits, close enough for her body to press against his, and waits for the darkness to clear.

The dust motes are starting to turn yellow in the first timid rays of sunshine that trickle in from the little window before he finally speaks. Sometime during the night, his head has ended up on Clem's shoulder in what must be quite an uncomfortable position for him, but he doesn't move.

"Thank you," is all he says, and lifts his head. Somehow, she misses the weight of him.

"You're welcome," she responds.

The silence stretches until Clem clears her throat awkwardly. "Do you… do you want to talk about it?"

He shakes his head. "Not today."

"I hope you're feeling better," Clem says quietly, reaching out to take his hand. He doesn't shy away from her touch; instead, he wraps grimy fingers around her own, filling her with warmth she hasn't felt in a long, _long_ time.

They stay hand in hand till the day breaks.

* * *

Clem has dealt with swarms and hordes and even whole herds of walkers before, but she has never seen anything like _this_.

She hears them before she catches sight of them; the faint moaning and growling of the walkers that they have grown so used to has swelled and grown in volume, amplified by a hundred times, _more_. From the edge of the little town, she stares at the huge wave of walkers that line the edge of the horizon as far as the eye can see – they're still specks at that distance, but as they sway and shamble along, Clem realizes that they are headed straight for the town. It seems more like a scene from a movie than reality, and the cloud of dust that they kick up serves only to partially obscure the horror.

Beads of sweat trickle down her brow and she clutches her gun, suddenly aware of its sheer uselessness in the face of so many dead. It's too much, she thinks, too many to kill/dismember/maim – it would take her lifetime, and several more, to be fully rid of this horror. All at once, she's struck with the awful, _awful_ reality that the earth will never be rid of them.

The boy tugs on her arm and she follows him, her mind in a whirl, her legs moving on autopilot as he leads her away from the coming massacre. They're well into the town when she finally recovers her senses enough to ask, "Have you ever seen anything like _that_?"

He nods. "Once. They call it a –" He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like zucchini.

" _Excuse_ me?"

"Zunami," he says. At Clem's confused look, he clarifies further. "A zombie tsunami."

This elicits a small giggle out of her, and he grins in response. "How did you survive?" says Clem, turning back to stare at the oncoming zunami again. A cold finger of fear runs down her spine.

"I hid in a morgue," he admits.

She laughs, but quickly stifles it. "Do you think there are any nearby?"

"We should just head for higher ground," he says. "As long as they can't see us, it'll be fine."

They end up on the top floor of a windmill at the far side of the town, trying not to make any noise as the first wave of walkers shuffle along on the streets below. The time never seems to pass more slowly than it does in that cramped, tiny space that makes up the entire top floor. Clem barely dares to breathe when every little noise or crack sounds like a gunshot in the deafening silence.

Sometimes, she can hear them trying to break in through the entrance, but it seems like the barricades that they hastily cobbled together can hold their own – the only question is _how long_. Neither of them dare to go down and reinforce the barrier, though; the slightest sound could be fatal, and so they continue to sit in silence.

The stream of walkers crawling and staggering on their way to their next unlucky meal is never-ending, darkening the horizon and the very air itself with their cries. When the first stars begin to shimmer in the inky blackness, Clem can _still_ make out another wave of walkers on the horizon advancing towards them.

She shifts. Stuck in the same uncomfortable position for god knows how many hours, her limbs have long gone numb. Her eyes itch and droop with tiredness, and before she can help it she lets out the tiniest of yawns.

The boy stirs. "Go and sleep," he says, and Clem opens her mouth to object – after all, he is just as exhausted as she is – but he shushes her. "I'll keep watch."

Clem unfurls her limbs, giving a sigh of relief as blood rushes back to them, and carefully, trying to make as little noise as possible, she places her backpack near him and curls up, shivering in the chill of the still night air and the cold seeping into her from the marble floor. "Wake me up when it's my turn," she yawns, her eyelids already crashing down on her.

"Okay," he says. Before Clem can protest, he has taken off the military jacket that he always wears and placed it over her, and she gratefully snuggles into the warmth.

The last thing that she sees is the stark black image of him silhouetted against the window in the starlight.

* * *

Midwinter has never been enjoyable for anyone, but Clem is willing to bet that two people struggling through the aftermath of a zombie apocalypse are bound to have the toughest of it. They've been holed up in a ruined house for far too long, trying to escape the infested nest of the little village they came upon, so it's a welcome relief when they begin to travel by moonlight. At this rate, Clem reckons that they'll be able to reach the next town before dawn.

The pale, cold light dapples the snow ahead, almost blinding them with its brilliance. Clem doesn't stumble anymore. Neither does he. They ghost over the surface, sprites that don't quite belong in the waking world, the dead walking at midnight.

They make a good team – Clem always in the lead, the boy following with his sniper at the ready. She's more than able to take care of herself, but it's nice to have someone watching her back, and he's gotten her out of quite a few sticky situations. With his help, she's been able to survive for far longer than she expected when she first started out alone.

The gargling and groaning of a walker somewhere nearby brings her sharply back to reality. The boy brings his rifle up, ready to fire, but Clem halts him. In this stillness, any gunshot will bring a possible herd on them. Instead, she creeps forward to the source of the noise.

The little boy doesn't look like he has been a walker for very long. Dried brown hair is matted to his gaping cheeks and his thin, skeletal arms still move with surprising ferocity, but the rest of his body is hidden under the cover of snow. When he sees them approach, he begins to twitch, his fingers moving in jerky, staccato motions, like a marionette on invisible strings.

Something as sharp and as cold as crystal pierces Clem's heart at the sad image of the dead little boy.

So quietly that she doesn't notice, the boy moves to stand behind her. " _Give him mercy_ ," he says, his words as soft as falling rain.

Clem leans forward.

When the twitching stops, Clem tries very hard not to think of Duck.

* * *

They come across their first unfrozen river when the daisies begin to bloom and the birds begin to sing. He notices it first – he turns away from the path and practically breaks into a sprint. When Clem catches up with him, he's already deep in the shimmering water, droplets clinging to his bare chest.

Hesitantly, she dabs her feet in the water, and immediately flinches back. It's _cold_. She stares in amazement as the boy takes a deep breath and dives to the deep. She can see every inch of him – the water is as clear as glass and sparkles like a rainbow. When he emerges, a struggling iridescent fish is clenched triumphantly in his hand.

He flings the fish onto land, where it thrashes about and wheezes for the comfort of water before Clem stabs it with her knife. "Come in," he says, beckoning to her.

She can think of a thousand reasons _not_ to – the water is freezing, what if a walker came along, there may be leeches – but the boy holds out his hand and there is a wild smile on his face, so she takes a deep breath and jumps.

The cold water gives her a frightful shock, and she ends up snorting water out of her nose, coughing and spluttering as she does so. As soon as she gets her bearings back, they end up splashing each other like little children from a long-forgotten era. It's a one-sided battle since he's able to cut through the water like a sleek dolphin while Clem can only flounder in the shallows, but she manages to get a few good blows in.

Eventually, she gives up and concedes the fight to him, and they both lie on their backs in the water, close enough to touch but not quite touching. Neither of them have laughed like that – so carefree, unrestrained – for so long. Overhead, the sky is speckled with wisps of pale cloud that drift by on unseen hands, and the gentle yellow flowers beginning to emerge on the riverbanks fill the air with a wonderful, hazy scent, and above it all the mellifluous, serene chirping of birds, fades in and out.

Clem dares to close her eyes.

Before they know it, the sun has already begun to make its slow descent down the sky, and slowly, reluctantly, they clamber out to dry themselves off, both unwilling to let go of that brief moment in time.

"Pass me the towel," says the boy, and Clem turns to hand it to him, and she blinks, startled as he stands slightly too close to her. His arms are roped with lean muscle and his raven-black hair is sticking up in odd spikes and all of a sudden, she's struck with that realization that he _is_ beautiful – he with the long dark eyelashes and the perpetual black smudges beneath his eyes and his ruffled hair and the rare smile that only appears whenever he is truly happy.

He catches her staring at him. "What?"

"Nothing," she says, but she lets herself dream.

* * *

When Clementine sees the skeleton speckled with bits of flesh handcuffed to the radiator, it takes all her strength not to fall to the floor and begin sobbing.

The starburst pattern of her gunshot is still etched on the skull, but the rest of his body has been ravaged by the endless march of time. The decaying corpse gives off a horrific stench, but Clem ignores it as she crouches down and looks face to face with the gaping eye sockets. She'd been waiting for this day for so long, but she hadn't expected her rehearsed words of _I'm doing okay Lee_ and _I've met someone nice to travel with_ and _I've learnt to fire a sniper rifle_ and _I've kept my hair short all this time_ and _I miss you so much_ to feel like knives in her throat, and her traitor throat constricts her voice.

" _I-I hope you're proud of me_ ," is all she manages before she flees.

He takes a while to find her, but find her he does, shaking and trembling on a bell tower of all places, as small as a mouse beneath the huge bell looming above her head. When he arrives, she's staring blankly into the distance, and he doesn't say anything. He simply reaches out to engulf Clem in a hug, and the human contact that she's craved for so long is such a _relief_ , that Clem clutches his shirt with shaking fingers and buries her face in his shoulder. She doesn't cry. She just remembers, and that's enough.

He says something to her, low words blending together in a blur of comfort and pity and Clem responds as best as she can. "I-I _miss_ them," she admits in between sniffles and gulps. "I want them _back_."

The boy tightens his hold on her. "So do I."

"I– I can't do this anymore, I _can't_! What's the point of surviving wh-when everyone else around you d-dies?"

"You have me," he says, his voice sure and full of conviction. "We have each other."

Clem shakes her head violently. "Th-that's not enough. It _hurts_ ," she says, her voice cracking on the last word.

Gentle fingers tilt her chin upwards till she's looking straight at the boy. "We have each other," he repeats, and then he leans forward softly, tenderly, and brushes his lips against hers in the faintest sense of a kiss, like the touch of a butterfly's wing.

In the ruins of a little town, beneath the shadow of the brass bell, two not-quite-teenagers on the precipice of adulthood hold each other. One has goggles perched on his head and shoes on his shoulders and eyes like the ocean, and the other wears a baseball cap and has short black hair and wide golden eyes. The dead roaming the streets below them let out an occasional moan yet above, a light breeze carries not the smell of rotting flesh but the crisp taste of mint. Streaks of pale yellow are starting to appear, shy brushstrokes in the misty horizon, but the rest of the town is still hidden in shadow: the dim corners of the toppled gray buildings, the ivy creeping up the cracks of concrete, the dust that shrouds the entire place, like ashes from an unseen volcano.

"Is that enough?" the boy asks at last.

Clem wipes her eyes and manages a brief smile before reaching up to him again. "For today."

"For tomorrow." He leans in, a smile as a slow as the dawn of a winter sun spreading across his face in response. "For _all_ the tomorrows."

* * *

The world is full of shadows.

Clementine is no stranger to them, but with him by her side, she's not so scared anymore. And so they _run_ , across deserts and rivers and hills, and they _fight_ , people and walkers and all sorts of monsters, and they _live_.

Because the world can and will strike them down one day, but as they stand hand in hand and look out at the earth, ablaze with colours and light and the hopes of a better future, Clem knows that it will not be today. Not tomorrow.


End file.
